Mondo Desperado Read Free Page B

had been like that. To have been able to say to her: ‘Of course I’m joking, Cora, hon! Joking because you are the sweetest creature a
guy has ever had the good fortune to hold in his arms – chiselled features, blonde hair and blue eyes, curves in all the right places. Hell – what more could a man want?’
    Yep, Cora Myers was a beautiful woman all right – sweetest doll you ever set your eyes on.
    But for every silver fox, lounge lizard and lowdown jazz rat in town, not Larry Bunyan.
    *
    The dumbest thing of all was, when I told Walter the whole story he starts going all kinda funny – like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about or something!
But then, I guess that’s old Walter, ain’t it – he’s just that kinda guy. Even down to saying he’s never
heard
of any place called the Go-Go Lounge!
    I guess he reckons now it’s all over it’s just time to forget – just like with the ink that day it all started.
    And sometimes when I see him smile – when I’m passing him a file maybe, or asking for a paper clip – I can read his thoughts just about as loud and clear as if they were my
own: ‘There he is – my buddy Larry Bunyan! The man who wouldn’t take it any more!’
    Or when we’re sitting in Louie’s maybe, his eyes twinkling as he chews on what’s left of his waffles, looking over at me with a broad smile that sends out a simple message:
‘They said he hadn’t enough to stick a stamp – they were
wrong
!’
    Like he does every day when we leave on the dot of one thirty, crossing the square as I put my arm around his shoulders and give him the lowdown on Cora the day she realized once and for all
that I was on to her. My own best buddy – the guy I have to thank for everything! – staring at me with big wide eyes – almost as big as my ex-wife’s, I swear! – as he
hoarsely repeats (you wanna hear him!): ‘Hee hee! Sure she did! Sure, Larry, old pal! Oh but yes! Of course!’ climbing the stairs to our office where our names inscribed in regal gold
wait to greet us, through the open window then his giddy laughter pouring out into the square whilst I – to all intents and purposes a bachelor now, of course! – uncork the bourbon and,
carefree as any goddam bird, pace the office floor and begin my story anew, Walter’s eyebrows leaping as he rubs his hands and chuckles, helpless tears like small rivers coming rolling down
his pink and flaking cheeks.

The Bursted Priest

Of all the boys in Barntrosna, Declan Coyningham was definitely the holiest. This was why all the other boys picked on him, of course. Because they were jealous. They
couldn’t bear to see him walk to church every morning with his missal and rosary beads tucked under his arm. They hated it, in fact, and were often to be heard saying to each other: ‘I
wouldn’t mind ripping that missal to bits. I wonder how our friend Mr Coyningham would like that!’ Declan knew they were saying bad things about him. But he forgave them. Forgave them,
and did so because he knew in his heart of hearts that they didn’t mean it. He often wondered if they had been born somewhere else would they have become prime ministers or rocket scientists.
He felt they would. Sadly, however, they weren’t born somewhere else – they were born in the Back Terrace, Barntrosna, and once that happened, your chances of becoming prime minister
were slim indeed. And no one knew it better than them. Which only resulted in a deepening of their hatred for Declan. They could not accept that just because he was born in a big house with a
garden, he could go around the town thinking he was ‘all the big fellow’, as Toots Agnew sourly put it. Toots, however, had misinterpreted Declan’s demeanour. Which found its
genesis not in any notion of superiority, but in a desire to do good by his fellow townspeople;
particularly
those who lived in the Backs.
    Late at night – when he was a boy – he would often lie awake in bed, dreaming of